So … what’s up here. Moving. In two weeks.
Let me back up a little bit.
Last month my husband N’s stepsister Carina died. This was in his hometown, about an hour from where we live now. The day after, a former coworker of his called. About a job opening at the company where he now works – IN N’s hometown. This is a really small place – you can imagine how many jobs there are IN town. (Pretty much none, really, besides this company.) So he applied.
The next week, after the funeral, a family friend called us. “I heard you might be moving down here. I have a place to rent, if you want to take a look.” Now, I didn’t think it would be hard to find a place – but I didn’t expect someone to call us, y’know? We looked at it July 4th – it’s (ahem) a bit ugly, but roomy enough, A/C (as opposed to swamp cooler), storage room, fenced backyard with swingset, great price, and a washer and dryer… and see, there my brain function just shuts off and I kind of start drooling.
So then we had to play the waiting game, trying to decide – should we just move down there anyway, and risk having to commute the hour back up here? Waiting to hear about an interview, etc. I hate waiting.
Then someone else was interested in renting the place, so we needed to decide what exactly we were doing. Once again, the timing worked out at the last second – the day we needed to call, the company FINALLY called and scheduled the interview. So we got a few more days leeway.
So last Monday, we went down for the interview. Kids and I hung out at grandma and grandpa’s house while N went in for the five hour (!) interview process (interviews with various people, plus a panel interview and a computer test). After it all, N said he felt like it went well, but no guarantees of course. Someone told him it would probably be two weeks or so before we heard back. (ARRGH.) Mostly because of that last bit, I was feeling stuck yet again, like it’d all never happen and like I was losing my motivation. (I’d been packing some things up, books and such, which was distressing in its own right, particularly since we have no where to put all these dumb boxes and such. Also it just stresses me out, packing and moving – call it trauma from a childhood as an army brat.)
Then that night (technically Tuesday morning) at 2 am, we woke up to the sound of gunshots (30 or more), running feet, and a car tearing out of the parking lot. Checked on the kids (they didn’t even wake up); shortly after answered the pounding door – the police, who wanted to go out on our balcony. Because there was a FREAKING GUN out there, lying right under my son’s toy truck. (The balcony is right next to the stairs, and the rail is bloody where the guy leaned over and set it there on his way down. Thankfully our downstairs neighbor saw it – always nice to have a witness.) So there were police and yellow tape around the rest of the night and almost all the next day (they actually came and got the gun at about 11 am). The shooting itself happened three doors down from us (bullet holes all over the wall there), same level and everything; a bullet even went through a patio partition and hit next to and above our door. Scary, to say the least. (Click here to see a photo set of the aftermath and all.)
When N came home from work for lunch that day he said, “Guess who called this morning?” It was the company, and he’s been “selected” for the job. This means he has to have a background check and a physical and such, and then he’ll receive the official job offer.
So needless to say we’re not sticking around here. We called about the place down there, then talked to the front office here about back-dating our 30 days notice a week and a half or so. They were (un)surprisingly accommodating.
Which all boils down to: we’re moving in 2 weeks. August 2nd, baybee. The horror of packing – it is sucking my will to live. Here’s a great quote from Paper Napkin’s twitters: “I haven’t packed a single freakin box. I think I have box-packing phobia. I hope there’s a Latin term for it, so I can feel justified.” (Though I have done some packing… but I agree, there should be a Latin term. Fear of cardboard boxes.) But other than that, it can’t happen fast enough as far as I’m concerned.